


Trusting A Hope

by Synthetic_Soul



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Human Zenyatta, Implied Relationships, M/M, Masturbation, Voyeurism, human Mondatta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-21
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-04-06 06:28:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14050953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Synthetic_Soul/pseuds/Synthetic_Soul
Summary: Written for Zenyatta Appreciation Week 2018, Day 3 - Another life/ AU's.Life at the Shambali monastery has it's own rhythm and routine, but when the absence of his student disrupts this, Mondatta searches for the answers and finds some - just not the ones he was expecting.





	Trusting A Hope

Sweet tendrils of smoke rose up from the plinth at the altar, coiling in mid air, serpentine and soft, pleasing to the wandering eye until they dissolved into the atmosphere above, leaving only the heady scents of sandalwood and pulmeria as a reminder of what had once been the physical. 

Watching, pensive, as the sticks burned down to their core, blackened and crumbling, Mondatta slid two more from their wooden storage box, passing their tips through the flame of a nearby oil lamp, back and forth, and then once again. Just as his brothers before him, he blew out the amber flame that took light at the top of each stick, gently extinguishing it until a white, velvety smoulder took its place. Muscle memory led his hand to the plinth, slotting the tail ends of the incense into their respective holes and bowing his head, reverent, palms pressed flush to one another as he uttered his quiet devotion to the iris. He had delayed long enough and now it was time his meditation began. 

Yet his thoughts were skewed, his mind unsettled and fragmented by the unmissable, empty, space at his side. There rested a solitary meditation mat, worn in places, fraying in others, a place that should, and was usually, comfortably occupied by his student, Zenyatta. 

But Zenyatta had not shown up with the rest of his brothers when it was time to eat, to wash and prepare for the day ahead. He had shirked the responsibility of his chores - a trait that was most unlike his student. Mondatta noted that it was not that unusual for the younger man to be something of a sleepyhead, dead to the world and deaf to its voices; or, indeed, the call to meditation. Some months past, a violent storm had battered the mountainside, wreaking havoc with the ancient stones of their humble monastery, wrestling some of the higher points of masonry free from their centuries-old resting places. Those slabs fell and landed hard with sounds akin to the tumultuous crash of thunder, awakening everyone in the early hours of the morning as they slept in their cells. But not sleep-laden Zenyatta. 

Worried for his student’s safety. Mondatta had pulled himself from the comfortable warmth of his cell, head filled with the last fringes of sleep and worry, and hastily padded down the hall, deftly avoiding tripping over the hem of his kāṣāya as he went. Of course, upon peeling back the curtain to the room, his worries had been assuaged instantly. Zenyatta had laid there, curled up in the blanket upon his sleep mat, the gradual rise and fall of his chest and every exhalation with it, filled the room with the same, gentle, calm that blanketed the younger man’s thoughts so effortlessly. 

His student’s ability to sleep through a crisis was nothing new, but to forget his daily routine, the only routine he’d known since the day he had arrived at the doors of this very monastery? Something was definitely amiss. And loathe be it for Mondatta to break with his own, rigid, routine, that nagging doubt would not be silenced. 

Palms flat to the fissure-speckled floor, he pushed himself upright, a beleaguered sigh surprisingly bolstering, long fingers smoothing down the fall of his kāṣāya. In the time it took him to glance, regretfully, at the still-burning incense, he’d passed into the high-vaulted halls beyond. 

In no time at all, Mondatta had entered the long, narrow, hall that housed the monk’s personal cells. Plain and dimly lit by irregular clusters of candles and lanterns, the space beyond each ornately carved doorway inspired peace, calm and restful states.  
But unlike the evening, when all you would hear was the mountain winds whipping up the strings of prayer flags strewn outside, Mondatta heard a sound that was, to put it mildly, most out of place. Come dusk, this same hall was bustling with activity, his brothers going about their business, preparing to turn in and tending to those last minute chores. By day they were empty, a capillary run dry, which was exactly what made this sound stand out. 

Straining to hear, Mondatta took a few steps in the direction the sound had originated, pausing only when a similar one came echoing, softly, down the hall. Another step and then another, pausing again when it suddenly registered with his brain what he was listening to. The rising volume of gasps, panting, like someone had run themselves ragged.  
Closer still, he drew, until he was somewhat surprised to find himself standing before the very door he had been intent on visiting: Zenyatta’s room. Inside, he could hear it continue, the gasping, soft and easy, accompanied by the subtle whisper of fabric and demure sighs that hung on the air, barely hinting at the unspoken words attempting to escape behind them. Was his student hurt? Unwell? 

Then he heard it: A whimper. High and desperate and needy.

Mondatta hesitated, fingertips restlessly combing the thick tassel that hung from the waistwrap of his robe. In his thoughts, logic told him exactly what was going on behind the thick, rug-like curtain that served as a door hanging, yet sense attempted to evade him at every turn. If Zenyatta was hurt, he should enquire if he was ok. Those sounds were those of a pained man - surely?  
‘No, not pained.’ Logic spat back at him from the recesses of his mind, ‘You know why.’ 

How many nights had Mondatta woken, restless, aching and needy, mind tiredly mired in the lasting ebbs of an obscenely prurient dream? A head full of unseemly thoughts and a belly full of want, how he had laid there, cock resting hot and sticky with spend against his thigh. It was never enough to simply wake like this, and he would feel himself grow hard each time the ebb and flow of those dreams haunted him, until Mondatta had no choice but to secret himself away, leave the sanctity of the sleeping quarters and head for the closest, insulated, store room. There he would find his relief, free to indulge his hot and heaviest thoughts - thoughts that could never become a reality, thoughts about…

He should not be here, let his student seek his own respite. It was not an easy burden to bear, he knew from personal experience, the urge nagging away at you while you were unable to find release with the object of your desire, whoever they may be in Zenyatta’s case. Perhaps the ninja who had come seeking them some weeks prior? Zenyatta had seemed so taken with him; Genji Shimada, handsome, dark-eyes that always seemed to glimmer beautifully in the pale light of day, that mischievous laugh and flirtatious little pout he afforded only Zenyatta, usually when it was time for the younger monk to tend to his duties. 

Mondatta felt a mild slip of jealousy start to sink its talons into his gut - No, he should not be here indeed.

As silently as he had arrived, he turned as though he were about to leave, mind quietly noting that his student’s whimpers had since begun to transmute to little, strung out moans that hitched so deliciously in his throat. Zenyatta was close. 

The mere thought alone sent ripples of delectable heat streaking straight down to Mondatta’s cock, common sense only just audible over the sudden quickness of his pulse beating loudly in his ears. He needed to leave, and yet - 

“Mhh...Mondatta…” 

-The older monk’s feet froze in place as soundly as if they had been impaled there. Unable to move, he stood there, caught like a rabbit in the headlights, scarcely believing his own ears while his thoughts spun at an alarming rate. Had that sound, that name, really emanated from Zenyatta?

“Please...Mon...nnhh.” 

Unmistakable, even when the younger man’s voice broke and dissolved into the most impure of barely restrained moaning. 

The older monk was moving before he was conscious of it, hand reaching for the thick curtain that obscured the room from view, peeling it back ever so slightly and twice as silent, just enough that he could glimpse who rested upon the room’s solitary cot. 

Bathed in the bright, ethereal light streaming in from the room’s open window, Zenyatta never so much as blinked in the direction of the door. His head thrown back over the edge of the sleeping mat, long, slender limbs still partially wrapped in the beautifully contrasting sunburnt orange and red fabric of his kāṣāya, Zenyatta’s bare chest heaved, laboriously. His nipples, painted with the blush of arousal, stood perfectly to attention, ripe and begging to be teased, sucked, toyed with until the younger monk was writhing for contact, grinding against the hands that craved to be exploring that lithe, pliant body, leaving Zenyatta begging for more of that particular sweet torture. And oh what Mondatta wouldn’t have given to make that so. He was so perfect like this, his Zenyatta. 

One of the younger monk’s hands had fisted itself in the sheets, fingers grasping up and twisting the bunched fabric, practically tearing holes in it given how tightly it was clutched, while the other had drawn a straight and true line, shoulder to between his thighs. Fingers, long and dexterous, curled around Zenyatta’s cock, itself fully engorged, the glistening, flushed tip revealed with every last languid pump of the young man’s hips, thrusting, lazily, into his own slickened grip. 

Licking his lips, impulsive, Mondatta idly wondered what it would be like to taste him, to leave the contours of that shaft with his tongue, tease and worry the pinkened tip peeking out from beneath its fleshy sheath. In his dreams, Zenyatta would allow him that dalliance, reach out for Mondatta, hands cloying at his head, no words spoken, but actions begging him to take Zenyatta’s cock deep, sucking down until the younger monk lost control, until he was utterly delirious in his ecstasy. 

But here, now, Mondatta felt his hand twitch where it lay, resting against the knit of his robe, fingers having relinquished the tassel and now aching to tear at the knot, shed these now stiflingly hot clothes and deal with the torrid mess he was rapidly going to be making of the inner layers of that heavy fabric. 

“Mon- Mondatta, Uhn!” Zenyatta’s cries grew only more intense, reassured by the comfortable silence outside, the once-lazy cadence of his thrusts more forceful, erratic. 

Utterly losing himself to his pleasure as easily as he might give his spirit to the iris, both shocked and enthralled Zenyatta’s secret admirer, this was wrong, oh so very wrong but utterly beautiful all at once. He would stay, then, just a moment more, no more or less, and speak nothing of this when his student finally joined him to apologize for his lateness.  
Mondatta observed the younger monk, Zenyatta’s teeth sinking softly into his lower lip, it was no longer enough to stifle the ecstatic cries that climbed his throat, which was when the younger man twisted, reaching up to grasp the single pillow from somewhere above his head, pulling it to him only to bury his face into its softness, smothering those forbidden sounds and arousal-laden epithets with it. 

Mondatta’s hands now burned, desperate to tend to the throbbing heat that had engulfed his groin, cock pressing, insistently, against the front of his hastily secured kāṣāya. He could lean against the wall, let the cool stone take some of the heat, or he could rub himself against it, grind against the softness of his robes while the wall served as the hard place he’d need to bring this to a swift and much-needed end. But to the tune of Zenyatta’s climax, with Mondatta’s name on his lips? Mondatta knew he would not have been able to keep himself quiet and that was worse than admitting he had witnessed this, watched this when he should have turned away. 

The swelling tide of need and Zenyatta’s wanton, muffled cries decided it for him. Conflicted or not, he had to, needed to like it was the air he needed to breathe. One, long-fingered hand cupped the prominent tent he’d formed in his robe, forming a soft, tight channel with which to fuck into. He’d launder the robes later, make his excuses and see the guilt he’d feel as payment for what he’d done. This was his burden, yet another to add to the considerable pile he was amassing where Zenyatta was concerned. 

One thrust was all it took to make his hips burn, a lascivious fire spreading out from his core, to course through his veins, virulently. He watched, entranced, as his his student’s belly fluttered delicately, breath hitching in his throat, adam’s apple bobbing with every thick swallow that punctuated the end of his frantically aroused sobs. Zenyatta’s hips rolled up to meet his hand time and time again, like this was his natural rhythm, like he’d been made for it, strings of clear, glimmering pre threading the backs of his fingers, slickening his palm.  
Every thrust was accompanied by the lewd wet sound of slick skin on skin. 

Mondatta grunted softly; that alone might undo him, but it was nothing compared to the unforgettable sight of Zenyatta so overcome, feet working, uselessly, against the crumpled sheets, writhing, arching, craving so much more! 

And Mondatta wanted to be the one to give it to him.

“Mmmndtmm!..” 

Muffled it might be, but Mondatta knew his name lay behind that pillow. His own hand now worked harder against himself, feeling his slick cock moist and hot against the inside of his robes, wishing, with all that he was, that he was taking his ecstasy-drunk student, rolling his hips to push deep into that tight, hungry heat of the other’s welcoming body. Hands binding Zenyatta’s hips, he’d set their cadence to a hard, grinding rhythm to the hilt. Into each other’s mouths they would cry, the elder claiming Zen’s lips to smother their sounds of elation, to keep this between them and them alone. 

In the room beyond, he heard Zenyatta bite out a last, rapturous cry, and Mondatta could scarcely peel his eyes away from the man laid out, like a buffet, before him. His student, his perfect, stunning Zenyatta, wracked by surge after orgasmic surge, hips bucking up in hard, uneducated ruts, thick, gleaming ropes of pearlescence painting his quivering belly to the lowest reaches of his chest - now heaving with the racing of the young man’s pulse. 

It was too much, Mondatta knew he could never hope to hold back, to silence himself in time! Furious and unrelenting, Mondatta found himself pitched, hopelessly, into his own release, climax hitting him as hard as the ancient stone walls surrounding them, squirting his orgasm into the slippery channel he’d created while he rutted, like a novice, against his own hand. And as he came, he was unaware, lost in that euphoric moment where all he could do was feel and listen to the sound of the blood pulsing at high pressure in his ears. In his mind, Zenyatta’s cries still echoed, the way he’d called Mondatta’s name still rang, loud and clear. But as with all good things, even that began to fade with the pressure, leaving nothing more than the enveloping soft warmth of satiation in its wake. 

“Mondatta?”

The name, his name, was spoken as a soft, uncertain question. It had all the impact of a speeding freight train on the older Monk, however, who felt his body tense, the icy cold prickle of dread and instantaneous regret gripping every muscle in his body. He did not want to open his eyes, afraid of the disappointment and horror he would see painting the expression upon his student’s face. 

But reality could not be everyone’s friend, it was a necessity. 

Opening his eyes he was met by the face of his student, head tilted in his direction from where he lay, sticky and ruined in disarray on his cot. In this startling moment of clarity, the older monk realized what he had done. In that final moment, when he had reached his apex, he had cried out Zenyatta’s name.  
Oh Iris, no!

And Zenyatta, bless his sweet-natured soul, looked like he was about to approach this with forgiveness. 

“Mondatta...I-” 

“Zenyatta, I...You must not forgive me, not yet, I am not in my right mind, I should never have- “ He began interjecting, when his student cut him off before he could utter another word. 

“Brother, please.” There was a steadiness to Zenyatta’s timbre he rarely heard, and something more, something...different and intangible. “Don’t leave...do not hide yourself away.” 

Falteringly, Mondatta pulled back the curtain, the full extent of his shame visible in the dampness that had stained through the thick cloth of his kāṣāya, the lesser only to the deep blush that had risen to his complexion, darkening it enough to be noticeable. Yet where he expected to see betrayal, pain or disgust, he saw only adoration in Zenyatta’s eyes, those pupils blown wide with pleasure rising and a sense of longing. 

Dare Mondatta hope?

“Please.” The younger monk reached out to him, hand unwavering in the space between them, beckoning him in whilst making no effort to cover himself. 

Mondatta stepped, still weak at the knees, into the room, hearing the curtain fall closed behind them. Zenyatta’s eyes watched him every step of the way, reassuring and constant, motioning him down onto the narrow cot beside him. And only when the older monk sank down to his knees within easy reach, did Zenyatta say exactly what had been on his mind since long before this unexpected discovery.

“I need you, still.”


End file.
